


Blind Eye of the Storm

by Sierendipity



Series: The Best We Can Hope For is Revenge [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Persona 5 Spoilers, conflicted Akechi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierendipity/pseuds/Sierendipity
Summary: "Tomorrow’s the day. Tomorrow they’re entering Niijima-san’s Casino for the last time, and making their elaborate getaway with her Treasure. Goro taps his fingers on the counter, acknowledging the polish reflecting his gloved hands back at him, his bloodied hands the black hides so well.Somewhere, tucked tight between his ribs, Loki starts laughing, a muted, jagged sound like the keys of a broken piano."---Akechi Goro sits in Cafe Leblanc the night before everything goes to hell, and makes a choice.





	Blind Eye of the Storm

_This is a bad idea._

Akechi Goro sits at the bar in Leblanc, swirling his coffee in patterned, perfect circles, watching the liquid rise to the edge of the rim but never spilling, never straying. A contained tornado, leashed, precise actions preventing escape.

He listens to the sound of Kurusu Akira pouring the other remaining patron a drink and making light, easy conversation. The news blares a hollow string of information at his eardrums, light outlining the bent form of Akira at the other end of the bar, hair frizzed just so and glasses gleaming on the end of his nose. The patron is giving him a stare, something twisted in his face, but the effervescent leader of the Phantom Thieves is ever unfazed.

Goro ignores his coffee, ignores the news, repeating babble on Shido and the Thieves and all the things work slides across his desk and his mind on the daily, and listens to the not-altogether-unpleasant lilt to Akira’s voice while he thinks. Tomorrow’s the day. Tomorrow they’re entering Niijima-san’s Casino for the last time, and making their elaborate getaway with her Treasure. Goro taps his fingers on the counter, acknowledging the polish reflecting his gloved hands back at him, his bloodied hands the black hides so well.

Somewhere, tucked tight between his ribs, Loki starts laughing, a muted, jagged sound like the keys of a broken piano.

…Why is he here? Tonight, of all nights, the night before everything changes, everything goes wrong and right, down into that inevitable spiral? The path he’d chosen, the plan he’d set… all the steps are _right there._ He should be at home ensuring nothing goes wrong. He can visualize the weight of the pistol already, the sound, the blood—

His stare cuts to Akira again, one hand in his pocket, the other methodically moving a rag down the already-spotless bar, each rotation of fabric bringing him closer to Goro’s seat. The patron has stood, dropped a handful of yen on the counter, and turned to leave. Akira wishes him a muttered “good evening” and the bell jangles and the door closes. His rag runs deliberately, slowly, into the edge of Goro’s saucer, and sits there. Waiting.

Goro lets his eyes run the length of the rag, to Akira’s fingers, his wrist, his arm, all the way up to his face, that perfectly-unreadable face and those perfectly-clear eyes. He’s unable to hold his stare, suddenly jittery, warm and cold at the same time. Loki shifts and twists and Robin Hood runs his fingers along the inside of Goro’s ribs—his eyes go back to Akira’s hand, pale and clean, ungloved. For a thief, he’s very honest with his hands. Goro finds himself, fleetingly, wishing he could do the same.

The silence hangs long enough for him to fear the sound of his own heartbeat, drowned out by the news, before Akira taps the counter twice with the rag and bumps the saucer enough that the cup tips. But nothing spills. Goro feels his stare, knows it, and slowly lets himself return it so it’s no longer a weight between them.

“It’s late,” Akira says, offhandedly, like Goro’s presence in what constitutes as his house isn’t so unusual. His eyes flick to the door, and he releases the rag, leaning both of his elbows on the counter so he’s at Goro’s level, only a few centimeters of breathing space between them. “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

And Goro knows what he means. About the Palace, about the Treasure, about Sae-san, about tomorrow. _Tomorrow._ His hands clench unconsciously into fists in his lap, where he’s moved them away from Akira so he’s not _tempted._

Tempted to… no. Best not to think about it. Not now. Not anymore, not ever.

“No,” he manages, despite the sudden tightness in his throat. _Yes,_ screams every other muscle in his body, thrashing, gasping.

_How well do you really know me? Why do you trust me so easily? Why you? Why now? Why… why?_

Akira tips his head, hair hanging over his frames, something lingering in the looseness of his face. “I think,” he says at last, pushing himself off the counter and going to the door, “that you’re lying to me.”

And Goro suddenly can’t breathe. If he’s so easy to read, Akira can’t be blind to everything else. The plan, the charade, all of it. He can feel Loki’s smile expanding all the way down in his stomach; _chaos, chaos._

He pushes it down, watching Akira walk to the door, shoulders loose, stance natural. There’s no hint of a fight in his shoulders, no fear in his loping gait. He pauses with a hand on the lock and looks at Goro over his shoulder. “I’m locking up. You staying or going?”

It’s such a simple question, so easy for Akira to say, even given what he’s preceded it with. _Staying or going._ Goro searches the other boy’s face, finding nothing other than that damnable mask, the one he might not be aware he wears, half-shadow in the lamplight, half-Joker. Goro leans back in his chair, relents, admittedly curious and already out of time.

“Staying.”

The lock twists; the sound’s in his bones. Akira nods. “Good.” He unties his apron and hooks it over his arm, folding it as he walks; in half, in thirds, the movements clearly muscle memory. Goro tries valiantly not to stare, and fails, this being his last day, the last opportunity he’ll get.

_For this to work, Kurusu Akira must die._

It doesn’t sit as well as it used to. He ignores Robin Hood’s self-satisfied grin.

“Another cup?” Akira asks, tossing the folded apron over the back of a chair and weaving his way behind the counter, pushing his glasses higher on his nose and deftly sweeping the yen into his pocket, never pausing. Goro glances at the remains of his cup and nods, eventually. He won’t be sleeping already, anyway.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Akira works for a few moments in silence, measuring and grinding beans, and then Goro notices him… humming. Under his breath. Something brief and short and repetitive. He hates the sharp little twist it causes down in his chest, behind even where Loki can reach. The song presses in on him, threatening, accusing. Akira is… he’s infuriating.

Goro leans over the counter, needing the humming to stop. “Can you teach me?” he asks, eyes on Akira’s hands, long, pale fingers poised over dark grounds. Akira sets the tools down, soundlessly, and when Goro’s eyes rise to meet his there’s something new in his expression, something cracked through the mask. He nods at the apron.

“Yeah, but… you’ll probably need that.” His voice is thinner, rawer, less musical. Goro nods, not sure what he’s just done, and picks Akira’s carefully folded handiwork off the chair and drapes it over his head, tying it as he walks around the counter. Already the coffee smells amazing, a faint sweet scent coiled with an undertone of bitterness.

He stands next to Akira, ready to work, and there’s a very lengthy pause. Akira shoots him a sideways glance, angled out the corner of his eye, and Goro hates the bizarre little flip his heart does. “Right,” Akira says, “I’ve only ever been the student, so take everything I say with that in mind. I’m no master.”

“Sure,” Goro says, and watches as Akira goes back to work, listening as he explains. There are two different pour-overs brewing, and Akira completes the first, providing added instructions. Then he steps around Goro while the first drips and waves his hands.

“You’re up.” There’s almost a Joker-like smirk on his face, and Goro doesn’t like what it’s doing to his insides. But he begins the same process, copying, remembering. Something to hold on to, tomorrow, when tomorrow inevitably comes. He can only hide from the descending day for so long.

“Am I making my own?” he asks after a moment, measuring out the water. Akira shakes his head in Goro’s peripheral vision.

“No,” he says, shifting, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You’re making mine.”

His hands still, and the water overfills the pitcher and spills into the sink. _What does that mean?_ If there’s one thing he can never deduce, it’s that smirk. Goro mutters a curse and remeasures, returning to the pour-over with overtly stiff hands. “Think it adds pressure, don’t you?” Akira asks, nearly laughing, and reclines against the counter, shoulders curled, eyes lazily following Goro’s movements.

“I won’t deny that,” Goro mutters, and Akira does laugh, then, a rolling, low sound. Goro doesn’t even pretend not to savor it. He straightens, watching the coffee drip to their cups, the sound and the smell curling around them. Akira’s laughter fades to a chuckle and then disappears entirely. Goro unties and removes the apron, folding it much the same way before dropping it onto the counter and turning to face Akira.

His head tips, that same piece of hair hanging over his nose, and he reaches up to fiddle with it, rubbing it between his fingers before shifting it to the side and pinning Goro under that stare. And that’s it. He waits. He _waits,_ something like patience hooked in the corner of his lip, hands in his pockets, the sound of dripping coffee and the remnants of his laughter adding to the broken piano in Goro’s ribcage.

_Was there something you wanted to ask me?_

And Goro feels like he’s falling, like the ground has suddenly slipped out beneath his feet, vanished, uprooted. Like everything he’d ever thought he understood and believed has spiraled away into the tilt of Akira’s lips, the curls of his hair, the lilt of his voice.

_For this to work, Kurusu Akira must die._

Loki picks at his cage, played out of tune. _Chaos. Chaos._

_This is a bad idea._

But the words come anyway.

“You’re correct,” Goro says, and Akira’s eyebrows rise slowly into his hairline. Prompting. Goro takes a breath, and then another. “There is.” He’s shaking. _When did that happen?_

“There is something I wanted to ask you.”

The world is whirling—a clanging mess of broken foster homes and old promises tossed out like yesterday’s trash—but Akira is solid, Akira is calm. And Goro… Goro swallows, and closes the distance between them so he’s in Akira’s space, cornering him against the counter, tilting his head down to see those eyes because he’s _taller_ than Akira, the ever-unflappable leader, Joker, Fool.

He’s never been this close to him before, able to see his eyes so clearly, and he can feel the connection, burning, flaming, like wings, like Power, like Principality and Dominion and _oh. Oh._

_You fool._

“Do you have a failsafe?” he all but breathes, throat suddenly dry and the proximity humming between them like a livewire because that’s _him_ , that’s a part of him in Akira’s eyes, behind the mask, keeping him safe. “If things go wrong. Do you have a failsafe?”

Akira braces one of his hands on the counter, angling his head to stare at Goro through divided strands. “I’ve never needed one before,” he says, and Goro believes him. The Thieves have been all but invincible up until this point, and though Akira’s not stupid…

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have one,” Goro prompts, leaning closer, preventing escape.

Akira nods, slowly, relenting. “No,” he agrees, voice strained, eyes flicking back and forth across Goro’s face. But what he’s searching for, Goro doesn’t know. “You’re right. Do I need one?”

That’s the question he was dreading. By asking, by needing to know… Akira’s not _stupid_. Goro averts his eyes, staring at the finished coffee’s rising steam drifting away, the world shifting beneath him again, uncertain, deadly. Loki’s echoing growl spirals through his chest and he feels himself slipping, dangerously close to some edge he hadn’t known existed. Chaos, but also order. Justice, but also revenge.

What is he _doing?_

“Goro.” His name in Akira’s voice snaps him back, snaps Loki down, clicks all the pieces of his fraying world into new, sharp, unrelenting clarity. Akira’s smirking, again, that… that damnable—

Akira’s free hand wraps around his tie and pulls him into a crushing kiss.

The world is no longer whirling; it’s solid, calm, warm and real and very, very still. Goro’s hands slide to Akira, trace his spine, elicit a pleasant little shudder. Akira tastes like coffee, his hair is soft knotted between Goro’s fingers, and… everything in him is roaring, screaming, pulled in opposite, tearing directions.

_For this to work, Kurusu Akira must—_

He rips himself away, just far enough to breathe, one of Akira’s hands still on his tie, still in his space. “M’sorry,” Akira mutters, still clearly a little dazed, pupils blown wide and hair messier than usual. His hand falls off Goro’s chest back to his side, but otherwise he doesn’t move, save the slow retrieval of his mask from where the kiss had shattered it to pieces on the floor.

“Ah, no, don’t, please don’t apologize.” Goro presses his forehead to Akira’s, waiting for his heart to stop hammering, for the acceptance to return, but it doesn’t. “You…” he sighs, voice vanished to the newly-returning tune on his ribs, the clock, ticking down. _Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Something must be done._

“Yes,” he manages to choke out, digging his fingers into Akira’s hips. “Yes, you need one. I’m sorry, I have to…” He has to _go,_ he has to get out, he can’t stay here any longer. Leaving Akira’s presence causes everything to splinter again, at the edges, down the middle, crumbling, spinning, but he _can’t—_

He makes it as far as the door before Akira’s hand closes around his wrist. “Goro, wait.”

Again, with the name. It wedges itself in his chest, and he waits, there’s no other choice. _Please let me go._

“Hey. Look at me.” Akira tugs on his wrist, once, insistent. Twice, almost desperate. And despite knowing that he needs to leave, Goro complies, turning. Akira’s not wearing his mask, he’s not half-Joker, not swathed in shadow or perfectly unreadable. Not anymore. His face is perfectly open, perfectly awash in pain and eyes bright with something like affection. “Stay,” he says, and all the breath in Goro’s body escapes him. “You have to talk to me; you can’t just walk out after… _that_.” He laughs a little, but slowly begins to draw Goro back to him, expression turning serious. “Stay.”

Goro allows himself to be led, boneless, aware of the blood on his hands and Robin Hood tall and proud and Loki grinning in his chest like a thing out of a nightmare. But when he’s close enough to Akira again to see his eyes clearly, when he has to tilt his head to press their foreheads together, he feels solid and real and cut free, and nothing… nothing else matters.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Akira says, picking up one of Goro’s hands and staring at the dark fabric of his gloves. “Luckily Morgana’s good at reading the mood.”

They both laugh at that, just a little, a stuttering, uncertain thing. Goro leans in to kiss him again, once, a small, chaste peck, and Akira frowns into his mouth. “You can do better than that,” he breathes, and the edges of Goro’s world knot tight, firm and unbreakable.

_For this to work, Kurusu Akira must live._

And somewhere, tucked tight between his ribs, Loki laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Good on these two for helping me overcome my writer's block! Kinda.
> 
> This is 4-a.m.-new-game-plus-inspired-writing, and I'm a mess. Thanks for reading!


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